Zero to Sixty
by RaindropsOnDeadRoses
Summary: Sam's always liked for Dean to brush his hair. Wincest one-shot. Nothing graphic, but there are definite implications.


Sam had always liked for Dean to brush his hair. And, if Dean was being honest, he had always liked it, too. It was sort of comforting for them both, in a way. Which was why it had become such a usual thing for them. Especially after hunts – the more difficult ones, mostly – during which Sam's guilt switch was flipped full-on, because, "They're still living beings, Dean. They're doing what they have to to survive."

This, of course, was all before Sam left. And after he came back, well... they didn't exactly touch each other. Ever.

So when Sam sat down on the crappy motel bed in front of him one night and handed him a brush, not speaking, a single tear rolling down his cheek, Dean knew the bitchy mood Sam had been in all day was due to something much more serious than he'd thought. Without question, he lifted the brush to his brother's hair and began pulling through the tangled strands as gently as he could. "What's goin' on, Sammy?" he asked softly.

Sam shook his head slowly, making sure Dean understood that he didn't want him to stop brushing, and felt another tear slide down his face at his brother's use of his old, familiar nickname. The one Dean hadn't used since he'd been home; not really.

Dean lightly chuckled, running his fingers through Sam's hair along with the brush, now. "_You _don't wanna talk about your feelings? Come on, dude, I can't remember a time you weren't goin' all chick-flick on me."

Sam sighed, leaning back into Dean's touch. "And I can't remember a time when you were."

"Sam." Dean stopped brushing for a moment and then continued as he began speaking again. "If something's wrong, man, you can tell me. I won't make fun of you or anything. I mean, if that's what you're worried about. Just 'cause I'm not usually into all the touchy-feely crap-"

Sam kissed him. Turned around and pressed his lips to Dean's for the first time since he was eighteen years old, and, for a split-second, it felt like nothing had ever changed. But then he remembered that it had, so just as quickly as he'd started the kiss, he ended it, turning away again like it hadn't happened at all.

Dean was silent. He didn't speak a word as he wrapped his arms around Sam's waist from behind and rested his chin on Sam's shoulder, all the while methodically stroking his hair.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered after a moment. "I know all that ended a long time ago, I just... wish it hadn't sometimes, I guess."

Dean pressed his slightly open mouth to the crook of Sam's neck and murmured against the skin there, "'S that what's up? Well, if that's what the problem is, who said it had to be over?"

Sam's eyes widened, and he turned his head to meet his brother's gaze. "Dean..."

"Sam?"

"You're serious?"

Dean slid back on the bed, pulling Sam with him until he was propped up against the headboard and Sam was lying in his lap. "I'm not sayin' we gotta go all honeymoon tonight or anything. But... You better be listening to me real fuckin' good right now, because I'm never gonna do this again." Dean paused and took a deep breath. "I was with a few people after you left-"

Sam tensed, every muscle in his body going completely rigid.

"No guys," Dean quickly assured, and was satisfied when he felt Sam relax against him again. "Anyway, it never felt the same. Never meant anything. And I knew I should want it to, but I didn't. I was kinda just fillin' a void. I missed you, Sammy."

Sam released a kind of surprised sound and then... well... 'attack' is really the only proper word for exactly what he did to Dean's mouth.

Dean laughed, placing his hand against Sam's chest. "Easy, tiger. We're both gonna need to breathe sometime."

"Dean?" Sam panted, and, god, hearing his name come out of Sam's mouth like that was just about all Dean could take.

He cleared his throat. Tried not to sound like a hormone-crazed adolescent boy. "Yeah?"

"What if I wanted to go all honeymoon tonight?"

And that was all it took for Dean Winchester to shoot from zero to sixty faster than the Impala. As he kicked the brush off the end of the bed in the process of climbing on top of Sam, he couldn't help thinking that something so innocent should not lead to something so completely and utterly... _not. _But he certainly wasn't arguing.


End file.
